


the scent of rain

by ncfan



Series: Valinor in the First, Second and Third Ages [11]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2013-10-14
Packaged: 2017-12-29 09:58:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Grandmother... Thank you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	the scent of rain

"And as much as I hate to admit it, we'll likely have to open up trade with the Noldor as well. The Mínil don't come this far east often enough to have much hope in regards to them, even if I hadn't already gotten the sort of response from them that I did. And we _do_ need more craftsmen, and the Noldor are the best in that regard."

Melian's eyebrows quirked upwards at that, as she looked her great-granddaughter over. "You know, I'm surprised," she remarked with an utterly inscrutable tone of voice. "Given how many of your people call them that, I would have assumed you would be calling the Noldor Golodhrim as well as them."

Elwing frowned at her. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Nothing." Still using that inscrutable tone of voice, it seemed. "It just surprised me, is all."

The Queen, young by the standards of the Eldar and even younger by the standards of the being who sat in front of her, watching her pace the room incessantly, shook her head violently. "No. It's impolite; I do not need to be getting into the habit of calling anyone by such a name."

_And these are not the Exiles, but the Aulendur. I tell myself that every day, but still I feel the same bitterness. Will I always be so bitter, at the Noldor and at everything else?_

Melian smiled slightly, that secretive smile that Elwing had come to know of in the past few months. "A good policy, my dear."

The rain was splattering against the darkened windows. Another storm had come up from the ocean, Ossë's work, or perhaps just a natural occurrence for winter. Elwing rubbed at her arms, and wandered over to the fireplace to stoke the flames, before huddling down in front of it and holding her hands close to the flames for warmth. She felt the cold far more keenly than did other Edhil or did Melian herself, a Maia, and not for the first time, Elwing wished that the settlement of New Sirion was situated further south, closer to the Girdle of Arda. Winters were never easy upon her. They still weren't.

_But Grandmother, on the other hand, does not feel it at all. She is still dressed as though it is high summer. The benefits of being a Maia, perhaps._

It had been many years since Elwing had taken charge of the Sindar in the Undying Lands who did not wish to submit to the authority of the Falmari, or the Lindar as they called themselves, the Mínil, or goodness forbid the Noldor. She had been High Queen of the Sindar in Ennor, and it only made sense that she would be here as well, given that those who had ruled before her were not at leave to do so. It had been so many years, and it still amazed Elwing how much fuss and trouble was involved in it.

Oh, indeed, when she ruled the Sindar in Sirion in Beleriand, there had been a great deal of work involved in that as well. But by the time Elwing called herself Queen, the Sindar, indeed, all the Edhil of Beleriand, were focused solely upon the business of survival. Living long enough to see the end of the dominion of the Enemy was a great deal more important than seeing to the concerns of the Dyers' guild or property disputes between neighbors. What attention Elwing had was focused upon procuring enough food for the residents of her city. _When I wasn't staring into the depths of a jewel._ There was never enough money to go around, and eventually, the city walls fell into horrible disrepair. _To the ruin of all._

But now, the city was still burgeoning, finding its place, settling in, and Elwing found her attention constantly caught by minutiae. The enforcement of local ordinances. The placation of the various guilds, and of any the nobles that had managed to get offended for whatever reason or by whatever person. Trade agreements. That was the stickiest issue of the day.

So many of the Amanyar did not wish to do trade with those they called the Moriquendi. The majority of the Falmari, especially those who had made the Journey from Cuiviénen themselves, were perfectly content with trading with their distant cousins further north up the coast. Elwing wasn't sure how receptive the Noldor would be if and when she made overtures to them ( _No, not 'if', 'when'. I can not simply refuse to trade with them because I have a grudge; I must do what is best for my people._ ). There were those sympathetic to the Sindar, but just as many who wished to distance themselves from the Exiles and everything associated with Ennor.

The Mínil had been the worst. Ingwë had been polite in his responses to her overtures; Elwing would give him that. He clearly remembered Thingol and felt no need to be rude to his old traveling companion's great-granddaughter. And Elwing would not call the responses she had gotten from the various guilds of Amon Uilos _rude_ , not exactly. But their refusals were all quite clear, and various Sindar who had been to the city of the Mínil all told her the same thing. The Mínil, of which every member of that tribe had made the journey to the Undying Lands, looked down upon those who had never left Ennor except at great need, and had never seen the light of the Two Trees and known the Undying Lands in the days of bliss. They did not wish to do trade with the Moriquendi.

 _If it came down to it, I could always make the journey to Amon Uilos and approach Ingwë in person,_ Elwing mused. She pressed her hand against her throat reflexively. _I can still part a crowd, even without the Silmaril at my throat._

In all honesty, that surprised her.

It still surprised her that she could do anything without the Silmaril, that she could part a crowd or hold a conversation or manage the daily affairs of the city. The Silmaril had been a part of her for so long that she still felt rootless and insubstantial without it. It amazed Elwing still that she was anything at all without it, that she could ever be anything, that she could be a remotely competent ruler. For what was she, really? Oh, aye, she was the daughter and great-granddaughter of Kings, the granddaughter of Lúthien Tinúviel and Beren Erchamion who had stolen that very Silmaril that had thrown its hooks into her and devoured her wholesale (Was she supposed to be _grateful_ for that?). But what was Elwing? Elwing was nothing in comparison to them, not great nor mighty nor particularly wise. She felt horribly ordinary next to Thingol, next to Lúthien and Beren, next to Dior.

Her gaze flashed towards the stormy heavens, and a sharp stab of bitterness drove through her chest, as it so often did.

Elwing felt bitter whenever her mind turned to the Silmaril and her actions in regards to it, which essentially meant that she felt bitter every hour of the day and night. Bitter against Eärendil, for taking it from her and opening her eyes to exactly what she was and what she had done by divesting her of what she had for so long believed hers and no one else's (And bitter against him for all those long years of absence, when she was alone with their sons, floundering in Sirion _—Could you have stopped this_? she wondered even to this day). Bitter against her father for not simply giving it to Fëanor's sons when they demanded it back. Bitter against Thingol, for asking for it in the first place.

Bitter against herself, for more reasons than Elwing could ever hope to put into words. But most of those reasons could be whittled down and revealed to have their origins in the small, forlorn wails that so often haunted her dreams at night. Could be traced back to the two bedchambers she had insisted be constructed, empty and waiting.

She wished that she had stayed with her children, alive or dead. Elwing did not know if she would ever stop wishing that.

All of a sudden, the gold circlet on Elwing's head, light as it was, felt unbearably heavy, and her head spun horribly. _I never had a chance, did I?_ She wondered helplessly. _Not after all of that, not after they all loved and lost and crooned over a gem of wondrous light, beloved and accursed. They couldn't see a way out. What chance did I ever have?_

"Elwing?" A hand, long and cool, lit on her shoulder. "Elwing, dear, you should come away from the fire. You're sitting much too close to it. Ainur can experiment with the properties of flame. Edhil would be better-advised not to play with it."

Melian's eyes are filled with patience and some sad humor. Elwing nods silently and stands.

There was all of that bitterness, with Elwing mired in it, quite alone. And then, Melian came to New Sirion one day in summer, and came to stay.

Elwing had never known her great-grandmother. Melian had left for the Undying Lands while Elwing was still growing in her mother's womb; she was long gone by the time Elwing was born. Of course, Elwing had heard stories about Melian, the strange, fey Maiarin Queen of Doriath. Unearthly beautiful, she was supposed to be, eerie and otherworldly, truly not an Edhel. Sharp-witted. Beautiful and gracious, but alien in ways no one could ever quite pinpoint. It was never possible to be entirely comfortable in Melian's company. She was unsettling.

For herself, Elwing could see the feyness, for it was a trait that she had often enough been told that she herself possessed. It showed most clearly in her fathomless dark eyes; there was always light shining out of her eyes, even in the darkest night. But if there was to be an alien quality about Melian, Elwing could not see that. _Perhaps because I myself am alien too. Perhaps I am so strange that I can not discern strangeness in someone else._ The sharp wit she was supposed to have was mostly absent as well. It showed itself in fitful bursts, and Elwing attributed this to grief. Her beauty was instantly apparent; Elwing could see how an Edhel could have spent a full thousand years doing nothing but staring into her eyes, as the trees grew tall and dark and twisted around them.

But mostly, Melian was just very kind, and very weary. The weariness she hid well, well enough that the Edhil around her did not seem to notice it, but Elwing did. She had always been able to notice when those around her were weary, and it did not make any difference if they were an Edhel or a Maia.

"Grandmother," she said quietly, staring into those starlit eyes. "Thank you."

Melian's brow quirked once more, caught in surprise for possibly the first time since she came here. "For what?"

"For…"

For letting Elwing use her as a sounding board for ideas and proposals? For being an advisor Elwing could trust not to take advantage of her uncertainty or plant false ideas in her head to aid her in her own ends? For not telling her that she was making an utter mess of things as High Queen? For not judging her for what she had done, and moreover what she _hadn't_ done? For not trying to force her to talk about the Silmaril? For not trying to force her to talk about the past? For not pushing her grief in her face? For not constantly reminding her of her lost sons? For not telling her that she would never be whole again? For being kind to her? For not hating her for what she was?

"For…" Elwing faltered, tried to smile and failed. That was usually how it went with smiles anyways. The pounding of the rain on the window was abhorrently loud; the smell of it pervaded the room, left her dizziness stronger than before. "For being here."

**Author's Note:**

> Mínil—a Sindarin name for the Vanyar (singular: Miniel)  
> Golodhrim—a Sindarin name for the Noldor; not a name that the Noldor particularly like (singular: Golodh)  
> Edhil—Elves (singular: Edhel) (Sindarin)  
> Falmari—those among the Teleri who completed the journey to Aman; the name is derived from the Quenya falma, '[crested] wave.'  
> Lindar—'Singers'; the named the Teleri of Aman use to refer to themselves (Quenya)  
> Aulendur—the name used first for those Noldor in the service of Aulë; later used for all those Noldor who did not involve themselves in the Rebellion and stayed in Aman; used to differentiate themselves from the Exiles  
> Ennor—Middle-Earth (Sindarin)  
> Amanyar—Elves of Aman (Quenya)  
> Moriquendi—'Elves of the Darkness'; the Elves (or their descendants) who did not complete or did not make the journey across the sea to Aman (singular: Moriquendë) (Quenya)  
> Amon Uilos—Taniquetil (Sindarin)


End file.
